Hello
by maireadcello
Summary: AU. Sometimes, you do a random act of kindness, and it changes that person's life forever. And sometimes, your life is changed in unimaginable ways too.


Hi _guys! Some of you may have read my previous story "The Friendship Games"; this is a rewritten version of it. If you haven't read that, welcome!I hope you enjoy. I always like constructive criticism; it helps me a lot. Thanks for reading:)_

 **Chapter I**

 _Thunk_

The arrow embeds deeply into the squirrel's eye. I now have six squirrels - a good haul, especially since it's Reaping Day. People don't expect much, if any, trade today. The Hob, our district's black market will be slightly less crowded; hungry parents staying home to support and comfort scared children. I'll probably end up trading most of it at the bakery anyway: it's my best trade.

Satisfied, I turn back and trek to the wall that divides District 12 from illegal territory - not that much of what goes on inside the other side is strictly legal. There's a small hill that leads from the forest up to the divisor, which is an electrical fence - well at least it used to be electrical. Now it lies silent and harmless _:_ an easy entrance for poachers like me.

On the top of the hill, with his legs stretched out in front of him as though he hadn't a care in the world, is Peeta Mellark. Stocky, with blond hair and bright blue eyes, he looks like everyone else from Town, which is the richer side of our District. Next to him is a small paper bag which he pushes towards me when I've sat down next to him.

"Hey,"

I don't respond until I've successfully removed the warm bun from the bag: golden brown with cheese melting on top and down the sides.

"Hi," I say, smiling.

I don't like taking food without giving something in return, even from Peeta, but things are different on Reaping Day. We have a tradition: every year, a few hours before the gathering, we meet on this hill and eat - a toasting, if you will, before the imminent horror and heartbreak of the Reaping.

I've picked up some wild blackberries I give to him. We talk mindlessly, well he talks mostly, I listen. Peeta knows me so well he knows that today is not a day that I'm going to be talking much, not that I ever do.

I guess you could call Peeta my best friend but really, he's my only friend. I usually cringe at the term "best friend" because it reminds me of the careless town girls at school who have a new 'best friend' every week.

"How's Prim?" He asks, catching my attention. I'm saved from answering by a loud roar that is suddenly heard from above. A hovercraft. Without thinking, we quickly hide behind an errant tree with sufficient foliage to keep us from view. The long, sleek silver craft glides loudly above us.

"You know we might as well run out at wave our hands. It may actually end up saving us." He has to yell over the noise to be heard and I laugh at his words, although there isn't much humor in them.

Finally the noise fades and we leave from the cover and the tree. Mood effectively darkened by the reminder of the Capitol, we leave the hill and return to the District without even seeing if the fence is buzzing or not.

* * *

We part at the entrance to the Hob; Peeta insists that they hate him there and I don't disagree. When I come in I'm it with the smell of coal dust and sweat. Greasy Sae takes two squirrels with a smile and offers me soup, which I gratefully accept. Todays it's potato with an unidentifiable green vegetable floating around. People mill around, men and women who only have today off from their jobs in the coal mines. They are still dressed in clothes blackened in coal dust, but everyone seems to be in more of a hurry than usual. A few stop to chat with Sae and the ones that I trade with nod to me, some wishing me luck, others ignoring me completely. Finally, I leave, after trading two other squirrels for flour and potatoes, and head towards the bakery to trade the rest of my haul.

I knock on the side door and rye, Peeta's older brother greets me.

"Hey Catnip."

When I first met him, he mistook my name for 'Catnip' and has never stopped calling me that, much to my annoyance. I scowl and push past him into the kitchen. Peeta's father is inside, kneading some dough.

"Hello Katniss," he says kindly.

"Hi Mr Mellark," I say, with a small smile. He has always been nothing but nice to me, even before Peeta and I became friends. He inspects the squirrels and nods in approval when he sees that they've been shot in the eye.

"Peeta's up front; he'll give you the bread," he says, and I go through the kitchen into the next room. Peeta is serving an old lady with characteristic charm and smiling. I hear her talk about her granddaughter who, she says is too bright to even have on slip in a million others at the Reaping.

"Her and everyone else," Peeta says kindly, and she turns around to leave, not without glaring at me, a Seam brat, with too large of a coat and dirty pants. No doubt there's dirt on my face and in my hair too. I resist the urge to hiss at her, just the way Buttercup had when I left the house this morning. Peeta sees my scowl and laughs.

"How many?" He asks reaching for a paper bag to put the bread in.

"Two" I say, walking over to the counter opposite him and leaning my elbows on it. I watch him as he meticulously puts two golden loaves in the bag; he chooses the ones at the back, which are always the warmest and freshest. Then quickly, before I can say anything, he slips in a beautifully frosted cookie.

"Peeta there's no need." I tell him, exasperated.

He looks at me with pleading eyes, in such a way that it reminds me of Prim.

"It's for Prim, since it's her first reaping."

I can't argue with that, so I turn around to leave.

"Katniss, wait."

I turn around to see him coming around the counter and much to my surprise, he hugs me. I'm so shocked that I don't do anything. As a rule, I don't really touch people, and Peeta knows that. He's much more of a touchy-feely person himself but we've never _hugged_. He pulls away and looks at me, with my eyes wide and my body completely stiff. He almost laughs - almost.

"Good luck." He says seriously. I nod slowly but stay silent. Without another word, he turns around and returns to his place behind the counter.

I arrive home to the sight of my mother doing some sort of elaborate braid out of Prim's golden hair. They both smile at me: Mother with a wan, slightly tremulous smile, and Prim with a bright wide smile, revealing her crooked teeth. All of a sudden I'm reminded of the old days, when Dad was still alive. As a baby, Prim loved having her hair done and Mom always indulged her. I can see them, in front of a warm fire, with Dad n his favorite chair telling some humorous anecdote. Her voice shakes me out of my memories.

"I've laid out a dress on the bed." Mom's voice sounds cold and disused to match her pale and ill-looking face.

I'm about to go get it when I remember something.

"Look Prim, Peeta gave you a cookie." Due to the warmth of the bread, the frosting has melted and his beautiful design is ruined. Naturally, Prim loves it even more when she sees that it's ugly. Her face lights up and she asks me to thank him for it.

"You can tell him yourself after the reaping." At this display of confidence that I don't really feel, she smiles even brighter and eats the cookie.

* * *

As we walk towards the Gathering, The familiar tightness of my stomach, which had shown itself earlier, only in a more muted way, rears its head. Prim is clutching my hand, and I force myself to remain calm, if only for her sake. We arrive at the spot where parents and children separate; there my mother kisses us both on the forehead. Soon we see the lines of children getting their fingers pricked, and Prim stills. I look down and see her lips trembling. Without a word, I lead her to the side and kneel so we're face to face.

"It's ok, they just take your blood. It only stings a bit. Don't worry." The only way I manage to not crush her against me and cry is by talking to her, with barely a breadth in between.

"You won't get picked don't worry. One slip in a thousand. They won't. They can't."

Finally, I've exhausted my words and, a few minutes later, i'm surrounded by girls my age. Some, I know from school, 'know' meaning that I have seen them and probably have never spoken a word to them. I turn to my left and look through the crowd of boys opposite us for a familiar head of blond hair. Peeta's short, so I don't see him immediately, but when I do, I see him perusing my group, presumably for the same reason. Finally, we lock eyes and he winks at me as Effie Trinket, our flamboyant escort takes the stage.

What feels like hours later, after a movie of how wonderful Panem, and especially the Capitol, is, and the mayor has spoken, it's time. My chest is so constricted I feel as though I can't breathe.

"Ladies first!"

A perfectly manicured hand dips into the huge glass bowl full of paper slips: one of Prim's and fifteen of mine. Finally, after what feels like minutes, she chooses one and with an officious and excited sort of waddle, she returns to the microphone. With an self-important little cough, she opens it.

"Primrose Everdeen"

My breathing stops and I hear a ringing in my ears. I look up at Effie on the stage, bright, inquisitive eyes searching for her. The tribute. My sister. Prim. This realization brings me back to earth. The ringing stops and all I feel is panic. I look around wildly and see Prim leaving her group and being escorted by the Peacekeepers down the rows of children.

"Prim!" a strangled sob escapes me and I push through the offending crowd.

"Prim!" she's looking at me, a terrified expression on her face. I feel frozen, helpless, and desperate.

"I volunteer."

Now I'm screaming, pushing through the peacekeepers until I'm in front of my sister. I lower my voice now to a civilized yell, and continue.

"I volunteer as tribute."

I barely realize my surroundings as I'm lead on stage, Prim's sobs fading in the background. Someone led her away, but I'm not sure who. The ringing has returned. I feel a hand on my back; it's Effie ushering me towards the microphone.

"My, my, a volunteer! Tell me darling what's your name?" Her voice has a piercing quality to it, but when I look up into her painted face with the fixed smile I feel as though I'm looking at some old poster tacked in our school promoting some new Capitol fashion.

She's still looking at me.

"Katniss Everdeen." My voice sounds scratchy to my ears and different than it usually does.

"Oh!" She's positively delighted. "That must have been your sister! We can't let her have all the glory, now can we?"

When I don't respond, but instead just stand still, silent, facing the crowd, she finally moves on from me.

"And now for the boys."

I'm looking above the crowd for fear of meeting the eyes of someone I knew, namely Prim or Peeta. I feel my hands trembling and I force them to be still. Finally, I hear the tell-tale _click-clack_ of her ridiculous high-heels on the stage and I tense.

"And our boy tribute for the 74th annual Hunger Games is... Peeta Mellark!"

There's a feeling, after you're punched in the stomach. You think the worse is over - it hurts, but you can breathe. But then, someone punches you again, and you feel as though you'll never breathe again. That's how I feel now.


End file.
